


No Conflagrations

by VicStone



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:31:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1902552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VicStone/pseuds/VicStone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke has had about enough of Varric's artistic liberty. And then Merrill just had to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Conflagrations

**Author's Note:**

> I always loved the beginning of DA2 and the way that it was made clear that Varric likes to exaggerate. And then I managed to actually make a character I liked better than the default (which default man!Hawke is pretty damned nice), so it lead to this.
> 
> This is set right before the Viscount asks Hawke for help.

Merrill tugged at his robes insistently. "Please, Hawke! Please? I promised Varric I wouldn't tell!"

"Guess you shouldn't've promised, then." Hawke's feet moved quickly, surely over the stone streets, his staff in hand, his face set in a grim scowl. "I swear, I am going to set that blighter on fire."

"Erik!" Her plea was more insistent, almost a shriek, and she was practically hanging from Hawke's forearm.

Hawke finally stopped in front of the door of the Hanged Man, since everyone in the street was staring at them anyway. _That's what I need: more attention._ "Merrill?" His voice was impatient.

The young elf finally lowered her feet to the ground, letting go of Hawke's arm. "Please, just... don't kill 'im?"

"Fine. No conflagrations. Unless he _really_ pisses me off." Hawke shoved open the door to the gloomy old pub and reminded himself to breathe shallowly. The smell of bodies--among other things--was pretty unbearable on a good day. And today was a really damp, unpleasant day. Almost made a man miss Ferelden's wet dog smell. Merrill in tow, he stalked up the stairs, ignoring the drunk in the corner rambling about someone named Loghain and being a prince. _Lunatic._ Isabella was too involved with a bottle and some longshoreman to notice their entrance. _For the better._

Varric, who had been scribbling furiously on some parchment, looked up at the two, his warm smile melting when he saw the look on Hawke's face. Noting Merrill's presence, he quickly put two-and-two together. "Daisy, did you--?"

"I am sooo sorry, Varric! He just... He came over for tea, and we were talking, and we had dinner... Well, we had _bread_ and some... I think there was cheese-- a-and--"

"I had suspicions, so I _asked_. 'Daisy' is really terrible at lying." Hawke sat down across from Varric, pulled his hood back from his face and leaned his staff against the table.

The dwarf's eyes immediately fixed on the weapon, and he went a little pale. Most mages didn't worry Varric, but Hawke was... well, Hawke. See a man blow up a few giant spiders and turn a rage demon inside-out, and even a dwarf will gain a measure of respect for his skills. "Now, Hawke, you know I can't pass up good inspiration..."

"Let me see it."

"Well, it's still just a draft, and--"

Hawke propped an elbow on the table, and the warm glow of fire surrounded his hand. "Now."

A pile of parchments as thick as a man's hand is wide thumped on the table in front of the mage. Hawke raised an eyebrow. "This much?"

"Well, there were some embellishments... a few illustrations... some bullshit..."

One eyebrow raised, Hawke sat forward and started reading through the pages with the efficiency of someone accustomed to getting through thick tomes with relative speed. A few pages in, he paused and looked up, skepticism plain on his features. "You changed my name to 'Garrett'?"

"Well... among other things..."

A little more reading. "Dark hair? A... beard? 'Rich... hazel eyes'?"

"Well, y'know, 'creepy, amber, mage-blood eyes' just wouldn't have the same appeal for the ladies. And there're too many blonds in this story as it is. Me, Anders, Aveline, Fenris..."

Hawke was already reading further. "Varric?! What in the bloody flames is *this* mess?" He rubbed two fingers across the bridge of his nose to illustrate, looking angrier than he had when he'd come in, if it was possible.

"It sounded... dashing?"

"It sounded good to me," Merrill pitched in. She was kneeling in a chair next to Varric, her elbows on the table and beaming at Hawke, who shot her a glare in return.

"It *sounds* like I never wash my face!" Hawke gave Varric an exasperated stare for a few more seconds before flipping forward a few pages.

Varric squirmed a little in his seat as he noticed the part that Hawke was about to glance through. "Uh, Hawke, maybe... you should just let me have that back and I'll make some changes to--"

_"VARRIC!!"_

The name seemed to ricochet out into the hallway and halfway around the pub. The main room fell silent for a few moments before getting all the noisier, as though the patrons downstairs were hoping to drown out the sounds of any violent murders that might be about to occur.

Hawke's cheeks were bright red even as he glared accusingly at the dwarf. "What... What in the name of Andraste's ass is this about Anders?"

Varric's eyes were fixed on the table, and he picked uncomfortably at a loose splinter that he'd found there. "I... didn't actually write that. Well, not the... details, anyway."

"I did!" Merrill beamed. "Bet you di'n't know I could write like that, did you? I just thought it might spice things up a bit."

"Merrill, I..." Hawke glanced at the rather bawdy roughed-out illuminations that went with the text, then quickly folded the paper up and tucked it into his robes. "Well, I'm keeping it, for one damn thing. I don't trust Varric not to hand out copies at the next game of Diamondback. I can't believe... Did Anders say something?" _That_ seemed completely unlikely.

"I think it was Isabella." At Hawke's confused look, Merrill waved dismissively, smiling brightly. "Oh, it's not like you _have_ to tell us; you can see it a mile off," she chirped. "You're so cute together. I mean, you don't realize it yet, but you kind of have this look when 'e's around. And the way 'e looks at you... so tragic, yet so dreamy. Like 'e'd follow you to--"

Hawke raised a hand. "Okay, okay, got it. Kittens and rainbows all over the place," he said flatly. "Merrill, you're a dirty elf." He placed a hand on the parchment just to make sure it was still in his robes. "We're not exactly... I mean, I haven't... We haven't..." He half-sighed, half-growled in frustration. _Why am I even bothering?_ "It's just so... graphic." He paused and looked at Merrill again with something akin to disbelief. "I'd have expected this to be something Isabella would do."

"I think her expertise is more in the 'crude carvings' department," Varric pointed out, reaching carefully for his manuscript.

Hawke's hand slammed down on the pile of parchment, and he leaned in close to Varric, staring the dwarf directly in the eyes. "You publish this, and the Knight-Commander herself is going to be on my doorstep. I think that this would qualify as a pretty big red flag for anyone looking for apostates."

Varric carefully withdrew, putting on his usual, easy smile. "Relax, Hawke! It's not like our story's finished. Plenty more to add."

"More than battling a giant rock wraith and killing a mine-full of dragons?"

"Oh, it's just the beginning. I have a feeling--"

The sound of the door to the pub slamming open and footsteps running in their direction prompted the three to get quickly to their feet, weapons at the ready. They all relaxed a bit, though, when nothing but a harried-looking messenger stumbled into Varric's suite.

"Serrah Hawke! Maker's _breath_ , you're hard to find," he gasped. "The Viscount wants to see you."

"Tell him I'm busy," Hawke growled, not overly interested in dealing with the old man again.

"Please, Serrah! He says you _must_ see him immediately!"

"Might wanna do that, Hawke," Varric said, already gathering up sheets of parchment and getting them safely out of arms' reach. "Don't want him calling someone worse to come get you. Begins with M and ends with 'eridith'."

"Fine. Get out of here," Hawke waved the messenger away. The man quickly scrambled off, looking relieved. All sorts of rumors were flying around these days about the apostate and his new coin, and a lot of the rumors contained the phrase "blood magic." _At least I don't get the door-to-door beggars as much anymore._ "Alright. I'm going to go talk to the Viscount." Hawke turned to jab a finger in Varric's direction. "You publish that... that _thing_ without my permission, and I'll set your blood on fire." The mage held up a hand to forebear any questions. " _While_ it's still inside you."

Varric gave a short bark of a laugh. "Mages can't do that." A pause. "Can they?"

Hawke didn't reply as he stalked out of the room.

Varric glanced uneasily at Merrill. "Can he?"

"I don't know. I can't. At least, I don't think so. I haven't actually tried. Seems like a mean thing to do to someone..." Merrill shrugged as she stood up. "Maybe?" With that, she was trailing after Hawke, determined to avoid getting lost in Lowtown again.

Varric shivered faintly. "Mages. Eesh."


End file.
